


Maric Lost

by Starla-Nell (Princess_Nell)



Series: The Bournshire Boys [15]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Assumed Character Death, Canon Compliant, Fistfight, not with Cullen yet tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:07:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24598015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Nell/pseuds/Starla-Nell
Summary: The start of the end of the friendship between Alistair and Cullen. Alistair's father dies, and he can't tell anyone.
Relationships: Alistair & Cullen Rutherford
Series: The Bournshire Boys [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/472279
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LyricalGibbon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricalGibbon/gifts).



> Sorry there's no real plot. I might decide to chapter this together to make it more coherent. Consider this, for now, a series of glimpses into Bournshire life.

Cullen watched from under his covers, hands interlaced behind his head, as Alistair got ready for bed. His roommate always seemed to do everything last. Partly because of his habit of getting up and going to breakfast late, Alistair never made it to class early. He was also one of the last to eat the other meals, joining those few who had long-running classes or (as often fit Alistair’s case, come to think of it) had been held after class. He got distracted by the smallest things on his way to wash until the water was cold and dirty from the others’ ablutions. There were so many benefits to getting things done promptly, but Alistair didn’t seem to listen when Cullen tried to tell him. 

Cullen was grateful, once again, that he’d had Mia to drill a sense of urgency into him. He’d have to find a way to thank her. He wondered whether someone like Mia in Alistair’s life would have made a difference. What would they talk about? Of course, Alistair was older than Cullen. He imagined the two of them meeting, and suddenly the scene fast-forwarded through courtship, engagement, and marriage. Cullen shook his head. No _way_ was he ready to contemplate that.

“Hey, Cullen, are you even listening?”

“What? Of course I’m listening.” Cullen sat up to prove it, realizing his tactical mistake too late. He was trying to go to sleep. Mostly.

“No you weren’t, but whatever.” Alistair rolled his eyes. “What do you think? It seems like Sister Sienna is going to spring a test on us.”

“Alistair, you know the Chant like the back of your hand.”

Alistair switched to goofy stage voice: “Good point, Cullen, I do know the Chant like the back of my hand.” Then he mugged looking at the back of his hand. “Hey, what’s that?” Alistair pointed at some imaginary feature he saw there.

Cullen rolled his eyes appreciatively. “You chanted your way right through it during yesterday’s meditation with no problem.” Had he kept the jealousy out of his voice? He wasn’t sure. There had been a fly in the Chantry and sounds of sword practice coming in through the windows.

“I still honestly don’t know how I do that.” You’re not helping, buddy. “I’m not sure I even knew what the words meant. I was in the zone.” Alistair threw a ball of the day’s clothes at the wall above Cullen. It bounced off and landed on his bed. “I do _not_ get in the zone during tests.” Alistair’s voice growled and his fists clenched and relaxed.

Cullen sighed, tossing the laundry at Alistair’s head. This was not a great time to pick a new argument. “I honestly don’t see the difference. If you know it, you know it.”

“Maybe I just second-guess myself too much. ‘Was it really the way I remember it? Or was that another part of the Chant?’”

“Well, stop that.” Cullen snapped.

Alistair didn’t seem to notice: “Gee, thanks, Ser, that’s swell advice. I’ll do that right away, no problem.” Cullen recognized a character from a play they’d seen together, a country boy awed by his first visit to Denerim.

“You should lay off the traveling storytellers, and sarcasm does you no credit.”

“Neither,” Alistair declared, “do tests.”

\---

I still remember what I was doing when I heard. Sister Sienna was standing at the front of the room. Cullen was sitting directly in front of me, kind of surrounded to his left by his friends: Sieffre, Drystan, and Farris. I suppose I counted, too, those days. Leolin was sitting in the back right corner, my preferred hiding spot until he took it over a few years prior. Man, I hated that guy. I can still feel it burn if I think about him too much. As usual, he had Cabhan and Padraig with him, but Rian was sick and dying of plague, with any luck.

Anyway, I wasn’t thinking about Leolin, even though it was probably him who’d snuck a loogie in my food at breakfast, because I was sure that Sister Sienna was about to announce a test, possibly today. She had been telegraphing one for a few days; I’d learned to watch for the signals each Sister leaked when test time loomed. I was still trying to figure out how to skip the test or get it canceled when she started her announcement.

“Before we get started today,” she said, “I have some news that you all need to hear.” This wasn’t the way she usually began, but what else would she be this serious about? Was she mixing up her routine, to keep us on our toes? These thoughts flashed through my mind, half-formed, in an instant. The next thing she said erased them all. “King Maric of Ferelden has been lost at sea.”

First, I thought she was joking. I laughed. Maker, I actually laughed. Who does that? But she glared at me and started describing the details. On some level, I knew that everyone and everything was still in the room, but I was only really aware of my own thoughts: Lost at sea? I’d heard he rarely left Denerim. How could he be lost at sea when he never left Denerim? Did the Qunari get him? Tevinter? Some other enemy of Ferelden or Andraste? Was this a precursor to war? Sister Sienna was explaining it, that they think it was a storm, but I couldn’t believe her. You don’t hunt down a storm and stick a sword in it. It had to be something I could stick a sword in. She asked if there were any questions, but the only one I had I couldn’t ask, it would be the stupidest thing ever. Why did I never have the chance to meet him, to talk to him? And now my father was dead. I realized that my dream of “accidentally” running into him in Denerim – at first as a skilled and capable stable hand, at that point as a templar in the fantastic armor – could never come to pass. Not ever.

Then Sister Sienna announced the test. This was shaping up to be one of the worst days of my young life. You know, so far.

\---

Cullen was a bit shell-shocked. King Maric had always been their king. It had seemed like he always would be. But now he was gone. Cailen would become king. It was a relief, to know that there was an heir, ready to step up, trained to the position. It was also a relief to know they wouldn’t be going to war. He couldn’t do any fighting unless it became an Exalted March, since he was serving the Chantry, not the crown.

Which is on purpose, Cullen reminded himself. You can do the most good here. The test was more immediately pressing. How was Alistair always right about these things? Well, he’d studied. He didn’t have the practice the others did, but he had spent nearly a year working three times as hard to make up the difference. If this test covered what he thought it did, Cullen would be ready.

\---

Alistair wasn’t the only one who wanted to put a sword in the person responsible. He lingered in the mess hall to listen as the conspiracy rumors circulated.

“It’s got to be the Qunari,” declared one. “They hate Andraste, and everyone knows King Maric is beloved by Andraste.”

Alistair hadn’t heard that before. Amazing how death adds virtue to your life.

“It’s a Tevinter Magister.” Aren’t the Qunari and Tevinters at war? “Everyone knows Andraste was born here. They probably hope that they can more directly tap into the Maker’s power if they discover Her secrets.” That doesn’t even make sense, thought Alistair, poking at his food. It tasted like ashes.

“It could be dwarves.”

“What?” several boys at the table Alistair was eavesdropping on chorused at once.

“Yeah, dwarves dragged him underground.”

The chorus splintered:

“That’s the most ridiculous”—

“Why would they do that?”

“Dwarves _helped_ Maric during the war with Orlais.”

“He was _lost_ on a _ship_ , numb nuts.”

“Oh, yeah.” This theorist looked abashed when Alistair glanced over.

“More likely it was Crow assassins. He made some wrong move dealing with someone in Antiva, and they had to make an example.” That was – plausible, actually. Kings sometimes had to deal with people from all over Thedas, and who knew what might offend the wrong merchant prince.

“I heard it was a blood mage.”

“That doesn’t prevent it from being a Magister.” Or a Crow, thought Alistair. If he was going to take on all of Thedas, it would be nice to have some sort of support. But who would support him? The boys chimed in with various noises of agreement, which encouraged this idea. “Tevinter Magisters routinely sacrifice their slaves for blood magic, just to impress each other. What if a king’s blood is more powerful than a slave’s blood?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Blood is blood.” Alistair knew this boy. Turloch. In their class, but somehow not in either side of the Cullen-Leolin conflict. He was waving this idea off.

“Well, I heard that elven blood produces more powerful spells.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“No, listen, this is good.” Was this just some sort of game to these cretins? Didn’t they realize what was at stake? “Elves used to be kings of everything. Wouldn’t a current king produce an even more powerful spell?”

“Here’s why that theory is stupid. What you do doesn’t actually determine what your blood is like.”

“But what if what your blood is like determines what you do? What if Maric was king because of his blood?” Maker, Alistair hoped not. At least there was Cailen, but he had no heir.

“Then how do you explain all those elves who supposedly make more powerful spells, but who are all slaves? No, blood doesn’t matter.”

Alistair stood up with his picked-over tray, spun around. “May I sit here?”

“You must be kidding,” one of the boys said. Looking right at them, Alistair identified Eirnin. “Aren’t you too good for us?”

“What, do I ‘put on airs’?” Alistair snapped. “I thought blood didn’t matter.”

“It-it doesn’t,” says the boy who’d said so, stuttering through his shock.

“Your friend here thinks it matters. Or maybe he assumes I think it matters.”

“If it matters, go join your noble friends, then.”

Alistair snorts. “I’ve no need to be called a bastard today.” Why was he so angry?

Eirnin stood up to meet him. “Your bastard blood has nothing to do with the fact that you’re an asshole, asshole!” He crushed in close, forcing Alistair to drop his tray and bumping their chests.

Alistair didn’t care who he was angry at anymore. Alistair dropped into a sparring stance without thinking. “Yeah? Eat my fist, wart brain!”

Fifteen minutes later, Alistair and Eirnin were sitting outside the Reverend Mother’s office.

\---

Cullen gave Alistair a sidelong glance, as they waited on the front steps of old Bournshire castle. “Wart brain?” Did it have to do with toads?

Alistair winced at his shoes, still nursing a bruise on his left cheek. “I guess I really screwed up, didn’t I?”

“I –” Cullen searched for something encouraging to say, but came up short. “I guess you did. I didn’t even know people could be sent back.”

“Don’t worry,” Alistair was quick to reassure Cullen. “They won’t do it again.”

Cullen gave Alistair his best “are you crazy” look.

“I mean, they won’t do it to you. You’re their golden boy.”

“Huh. I’ve got all the natural talent of a toad.” This was going to bother Cullen. Why warts? On the brain?

“Maybe Turloch was right, maybe that doesn’t mean anything.” Alistair was staring at the low sun in wonder. Insects chirped at each other experimentally, gaining momentum as shadows fell. Then Alistair turned to Cullen. “You’re going to be a great templar. For starters, you _want_ to be here. It doesn’t matter what you can’t do, because you do it anyway.”

Cullen squinted at his friend. “You don’t want to be here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Alistair went back to staring listlessly at the sun.

“But, in training…” Cullen realized for the first time that it _was_ obvious. Alistair was just so good at the training, so totally focused when he was doing it, Cullen had just assumed Alistair wanted to be there. His joking complaints hid a real desire to be… anywhere else.

“Yeah, the training itself isn’t bad. But here? I hate it here.” Alistair’s voice carried more bitterness than Cullen had heard before. “The Chanting and the rules and fighting for every smile and laugh and … Cullen, I don’t belong here. They’re well rid of me.”

Cullen contemplated his life in the Chantry so far, considered what it would have been without Alistair, what it would be, now that he was leaving. “I can’t speak for anyone else, but I will miss you.” Cullen clapped his friend on the shoulder.

“Huh. You will?” Alistair gaped and snapped his mouth shut several times, nearly saying several probably-inappropriate things. Instead, he said, “Thank you.”

A little later, a carriage with Arl Eamon’s coat of arms appeared at the top of the hill, next to the little lake. Cullen wondered for the hundredth time how a lake atop a hill filled as he stood and helped Alistair hoist his pack of socks. (“Damned if I’m going to let Leolin have them,” he’d said.) As the carriage pulled away, Cullen called after it, “You’d better write,” and got a wave out the window in response. And then he was gone.

\---

And then he was back. Only a few days later, after class, he appeared in the dorm, lounging on his bed the way he always had. Cullen stopped in the doorway, stunned.

“Hi.” Alistair waved inadequately around the room.

“What? How?” Cullen stopped the questions with a snap of his mouth shut.

“Whoa, buddy, contain yourself. Too much joy.”

“No, I’m – glad you’re back, Alistair. Welcome back.”

“But?”

“But you didn’t want to be back.”

Alistair’s chuckle was paper-thin. “Apparently, there isn’t really anywhere else for me.”

“You were going home to Redcliffe.”

“Redcliffe isn’t home for me anymore.” Alistair looked away. “It hasn’t been for a long time.”

“What are you going to do?” Cullen asked.

“What do you think? I’m going to do the same thing I’ve always done. Raise mayhem and make everyone’s lives more interesting.”

Cullen gave a small smile. “Without you here, it has been a little…” Would it be uncouth to say peaceful?

“Dull? Boring? Monotonous?”

“I’ll go with ‘quiet,’” Cullen decides.

“Very good, nice job sparing the feelings of the Sisters here. I’ll know the truth.” But maybe some part of Alistair really wasn’t back. Their short exchange seemed to have taken all of Alistair’s energy. He joined Cullen as he went to Chant and the baths. It was as if following Cullen was just … easier. Why Alistair needed life to be easy right now, Cullen couldn’t imagine. Had it really been that bad at Redcliffe?

If the best word to describe Alistair before had been boisterous, now he was muted. He never rose to Leolin’s bait. He caused no trouble in class, didn’t get sent to the kitchens. It was when Cullen realized that Alistair had stopped trying to get Sister Moyra to smile that he really got worried.


	2. Textbook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair picks a fight. Cullen learns a truth.

Alistair had been sleeping less. His dreams were filled with messenger birds with notes from King Maric, the father that never was. He didn’t know where they came from, but they all said the same thing: I’m not dead. In these dreams, Alistair tried to write back, Where are you, but he couldn’t find a pen, or the paper dissolved at his touch, or the writing desk transformed into green light. Chains of fire might rise up and bind his arms, or his feet might sink into the spongy Fade. Sometimes the bird whispers that if he used templar power here, the dream would end and he’d never find Maric. Once, he even tested that. He was in his room, there were no chains, but he couldn’t move. Once he stopped panicking, he relaxed into his helplessness only to fall into dreams of birds and chains again.

No thank you. Less sleep it is.

This morning, he opened his eyes when Cullen got up, as usual. He never knew how Cullen always awoke one half-hour before sunrise. It worked out well, because breakfast started at sunrise.

With a start, he realized that it would be one year today that Cullen had been here, if he reckoned right. Huh. Alistair rolled over, considering what he should do. He could follow whatever Cullen does. “Better than dreaming,” Alistair told the wall.

“What?” asked Cullen.

“Nothing,” Alistair droned. Then he rolled out of bed and got ready for breakfast, too.

\---

Alistair was impersonating a human. Specifically, he was trying to impersonate himself.

“Alistair, what’s the difference between blood mages, thralls, and abominations?” Sister Cadence was one of the youngest and yet sternest sisters here.

Now what would the real Alistair do in this situation? “Well, abominations are the worst. They’re all twisted and blobby.”

“Ha!” Sister Cadence’s laugh was not one of Alistair’s favorites, all short and ironic. On the upside, her example was helping him recognize his own bitter tones. Sometimes he could even control them. “Would you really think so, if the blood mage used your sister as a blood sacrifice?”

“Not really. I don’t have a sister,” Alistair said dully. Cullen gave him a sideways look. Oops. Alistair had once punched Leolin for leveraging family to make a point. Today it barely registered.

Sister Cadence’s voice came out low and biting. “Hmph. That you know of.”

Alistair’s jaw snapped shut. She was just trying to be practical, probably. Yeah, that was it.

After a moment, Cullen stepped in, all smooth and word-having. “Sister Cadence, I believe I can help. Blood mages use blood to power spells. It can be their own or someone else’s. Thralls are under the control of a blood mage or demon. Abominations are when a demon possesses a person.”

“Excellent. Textbook.”

Alistair’s brain found a solution. He mumbled his response as his brain unseized.

“What was that, Alistair?”

“Or darkspawn,” Alistair said more clearly. The rage that had been building with no direction since Maric’s funeral flared up.

“Darkspawn don’t get possessed,” Cullen sounded confused now. Good.

“It wasn’t textbook. A thrall is under the control of a blood mage, demon, or darkspawn.” He noticed the anger in his voice, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop it. The emotion was hot, pure.

“Alistair, don’t be difficult,” admonished Sister Cadence. Why did Cullen seem smug? Was this something he planned?

Alistair watched himself blurt, “I’m just saying, if you’re going to be textbook, get it right.”

“Well, what the textbook doesn’t say is that blood mages, thralls, and yes, even abominations can look just like any other mage. When abominations transform, they become more powerful, but they are also much easier to spot.” Sister Cadence kept the lesson moving forward, during which Alistair fumed. The details and order of events swam and melded in his memory.

\---

After class, Cullen actually had the gall to round on _him_! “What the void was that about?”

Self defense, that’s what. “I could ask you the same thing.” Traitor, Alistair just barely managed to resist adding.

“I was trying to help you!”

A likely story. “Show off is more like!”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “Which wasn’t the case at all with what you pulled.”

“Turn about’s fair play.”

Cullen sounded exasperated, frustrated. “We’re on the same _side_!”

“And what side is that, exactly?” Yes, anger. Like lava, burning the other emotion in its path.

“Our side! The side where we both become templars and fight the good fight! The side where neither of us self-destructs!” Cullen would never self-destruct.

“Or the side where you become king of Thedas!” Alistair blurts, and it’s too much, too close, going down with the ship

Cullen stares, but he can’t see the rising waters. “What are you talking about?”

“You are always trying to be better, or seem better! You won’t stop until you’re on top of the world.”

“Of course I’m always trying to be better,” Cullen says slowly. “What else would I do?”

“Argh! Why do you have to know what you’re doing?” Alistair yells. “Why can’t you just have a little bit of doubt sometimes?”

“Alistair, you said you don’t want to be here…” No good, no good, he’s not even angry any more.

“Right. Can I just – just your old life? Move to your _family_ farm, work every day until I collapse, spend time with your family?” Alistair lit on something that might get Cullen going again. “Hey, I know, this could work. I could marry your sister! How about that? Don’t worry, I’d take good care of her, every night.”

It wasn’t working. “Alistair, I know you’re upset about your family in Redcliffe…”

“You don’t know _anything_! Eamon isn’t family; he isn’t even really my uncle, not really! He’s just – he’s just…”

“Look, have you tried looking up your father?” Cullen was being unhelpful again. “Maybe he isn’t what you think. Maybe he thinks you’re doing fine and doesn’t want to meddle.”

“That would be awfully hard to do in this world.” Alistair thought of ravens and chains. “He’s dead.”

Cullen still wasn’t angry, but his eyes were wide and he paused a bit. “He’s what?”

\---

“He died!”

So that’s what crawled up his butt and died. Alistair had lost his father. “When?” But, wait, if he didn’t know his father, how could he have heard?

“I found out a few weeks ago.” Alistair’s voice quieted, his eyes dropped, energy drained.

“But how can you know that? You said he abandoned you. No contact.”

“I – just know, alright?”

Alistair knew his father’s identity. If an Arl was his uncle, his father had to be someone important. Another Arl? Cullen remembered the announcement a few weeks ago, just before Alistair got into a fight. About bloodlines. “Did you … see him burned?”

“There were services. Eamon and I attended.”

No burning. And, in the announcement, King Maric was lost at sea. “You?” Cullen blurted as he put the pieces together. “You’re the King’s _son_?”

Alistair became wooden again, which was maybe an improvement over trashfire. “Ha. No, now who’s the jokester?” His voice was toneless.

“You are the rightful heir? _You?!?_ You are next in line for the throne?”

“No! Shut up! Keep your voice down! I never said that!”

“You didn’t have to. I figured it out, didn’t I? What are you, nuts? What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in Denerim? You don’t need to be a templar! You could be King!”

Alistair’s eyes bugged like a spooked horse. “No! I couldn’t! Have you met me? I’d be a terrible king! And in order for me to be king, Cailen would have to be dead! I may not know much about him, but I can already see that Cailen is a better king than I would ever be.”

“But Alistair, as brother to the King –”

“He would never accept me. I would be a threat to Cailen’s rule,” Alistair said, the same way kids repeated the names of writing symbols back to the Honnleath Sister who taught them.

“You could have influence…” Cullen was amazed at the possibilities open to this little shit, possibilities he was wasting. Worse, Cullen’s biggest chance to make a difference in the world was a wasted opportunity for Alistair. Cullen felt his envy open a yawning rift between them.

Alistair was adamant. “No. No! I will not do good by having influence. I will do good by fighting evil – blood mages, abominations, and darkspawn. Put these things in front of me, and I will hit them with my sword. _That_ is how I will protect others. _That_ is how I will spread good in this world. One evil beastie at a time. Have you seen the damage just a bit of darkspawn taint can do? If I can kill just one of those creatures before I die, think how much grief that would prevent!”

“Do you think that the people you help will be grateful to you, then?” Cullen spat the words. Alistair’s jaw opened and snapped closed, but that just ticked Cullen off more. “When you kill this darkspawn, in your head. Do you imagine the lowly villagers looking on in horror as this impossible beast descends upon them, only to be stopped! By you! Do you imagine they’ll love you then? The villagers? What form do you imagine their gratitude takes? Song? Dance?”

“I was hoping pie? Fine cheese?” Alistair was shrinking, trying to dodge the subject, _again_.

“Oh, and maybe some girl would join you in your bed? And maybe then they would crown you as king?” Cullen’s false cheer rang in his own ears before he dropped the hammer. “Well, guess what? Darkspawn don’t come in ones and twos. They come in hordes. And when they’re dead, they aren’t gone. They taint the land. They destroy it, make it useless. So when you’ve killed your darkspawn, no one is going to be thinking about the damage that _one_ would have done. They’ll think about the next one, and the one after that, and wonder just how far the Taint will spread.” Cullen had to get away from Alistair’s useless mug, before he started swinging. He stalked over, opened the door. A thought bubbled to the surface of his brain. He turned to shout his parting remark. “And stay away from my sister!” Cullen slammed the door and stormed down the hall, past open doors of other dorms where recruits were studying and swapping rumors.

Alistair opened the door behind him. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t want your sister if I knew what she looked like!” Behind him, Cullen heard the door slam again.

As Cullen stomped down the hall, wondering where he was going, he heard the murmuring laughter of the other recruits. Everyone seemed to be in the barracks. That meant no one would be in the Chantry library this time of night. He headed there – to study, he told himself.

\---

Cullen hadn’t studied. He’d Chanted, eyes closed to candlelight, bowed before the figure of Andraste. Chanting through as much as the Canticle of Transfigurations as he could remember helped him gain perspective. Canticle of Trials would be overkill.

Now he trudged up the stairs, knees stiff and raw. He kept his perspective as he ringed the upper walkway, entered the barracks, paced down the hall to his own door. A candle was still lit.

\---

Cullen trudged into the room, limping but relaxed. Alistair set down his pen. He’d finished the lines for Sister Moyra, so he’d been writing everything he could remember about the Chant, the history of magic, the dynamics of shield use. He was avoiding … everything. He wished he could take an herbalist cure and make the pain disappear.

“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure what to expect when Cullen got back, but this wasn’t really it. Alistair realized two things: Cullen actually meant it when he said they were on the same side. Also, Alistair might be jeopardizing the only chance at friendship he’d had at Bournshire.

“Me, too.” Alistair couldn’t remember what he was sorry for, didn’t know why either was apologizing, but he knew how he felt, how the pain yawned wider between him and everything he might care about. When he apologized, his emotions reappeared, opening painfully. Like a flower, he thought uselessly.

“Your father died. I can’t even imagine. Are you okay?”

“Oh, you know …” No, he really didn’t. “It’s not like I knew him.” Jokes again, why did he always reach for jokes? Alistair tried again, “It’s more like I dreamed of knowing him. Now, these last few weeks, I’ve been mourning the death of a dream: real family, a real life.” Now Alistair remembered a detail of their argument. “Cullen, I’m sorry. I should never have said that about your sister. I would never disrespect her. Them. Either sister. I’ve just been so … angry.” But he didn’t feel angry now. He felt tired, raw, and empty.

“I think we both need sleep.” Cullen brought to mind the ravens, chains, and helplessness, but maybe that would be better than this dull buzzing.

“Yeah.” Alistair got up, and they silently got ready for bed at the same time. When they were settled in their respective beds, Alistair wished Cullen good night and blew out the candle.

“Good night, Alistair. Dream well.”

If wishes were horses, then elves would ride.


	3. Fist Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: 14-year-old Cullen tries to get Alistair to see the error of his ways. Alistair tries the wipe the righteousness off of Cullen’s stupid face.

At least he could sit still. That had taken months of practice. The candle flickered before him as the class Chanted through Transfigurations:

These truths the Maker has revealed to me:

As there is but one world,

One life, one death, there is

But one god, and He is our Maker.

They are sinners, who have given their love

To false gods.

They knelt in a half-circle around a larger-than-life figure of Andraste. Dozens of half-melted, red candles had been planted on the stone in front of the figure. Only one was lit. They had been chanting without fidgeting for over an hour, watching the new candle burn down.

Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.

Foul and corrupt are they

Who have taken His gift

And turned it against His children.

They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones.

They shall find no rest in this world

Or beyond.

The Sisters stood behind them, occasionally making small noises “to deepen their focus.” Cullen found it distracting.

All _-scuff-_ are the Work of our Maker’s Hands,

From the _-tap-tap-_ slaves

To the highest kings.

Those who bring harm

Without provo _-shiff-_ to the least of His children

Are hated and accursed by the Maker.

He was on the far right side of the semi-circle, so sometimes he could see Sisters behind Alistair and other recruits on the far left. He focused on the _words_ instead.

Those who bear false witness

And work to deceive others, know this:

There is but one Truth.

All things are known to our Maker

And He shall judge their lies.

Cullen’s eyes strayed to Alistair, drawn by the movement of a prowling Sister behind him. Sister Cadence did something Cullen had never seen before: she touched Alistair on the shoulder, through his apprentice robes, once. Alistair’s face remained blank. No, not blank: enraptured. The Chant spilled out of his mouth, and his eyes never left the candle. Cullen fought his own mind to get every word perfect.

All things in this world are finite.

What one man gains, another has lost.

Those who steal from their brothers and sisters

Do harm something, something and to their peace of mind.

Our Maker sees this with a heavy heart.

The Maker surely saw Alistair. How did he _do that_ , and yet hold the distinction as the class clown? In training, Cullen worked tirelessly to barely keep pace, yet Alistair did nothing extra, spent no extra time studying history or theology in the Chantry stacks. He barely paid attention in class.

Sister Cadence caught Cullen’s eye and glared at him. Maker’s Breath, he’d lost his place entirely.

O Creator, see me kneel:

For I walk only where You would bid me.

Stand only in places You have blessed.

Sing only the words You place in my throat.

As he picked up the Chant and eyed the candle again, a thought struck him: what if Alistair really applied himself?

My Maker, know my heart:

Take from me a life of sorrow.

Cullen knew he should want Alistair to try – and to succeed.

Lift me from a world of pain.

Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.

Cullen imagined the resulting templar would be able to protect more people.

My Creator, judge me whole:

Find me well within Your grace.

Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.

Tell me I have sung to Your approval…

Cullen spent the rest of Transfigurations striving to want Alistair to apply himself. It’s not that Cullen wanted Alistair to fail… He tried to focus, glared at the candle, and yet could not win this struggle.

After they Chanted, Sister Moyra spoke a familiar refrain: each templar is called to be a hero. Sister Moyra continued, “Your story might even end with heroic action.”

Of course, thought Cullen.

“A high price, and for what?” said Alistair. He no longer looked enraptured; his eyebrows lowered over glaring eyes. His voice was a bit too loud. His jaw was set. Again.

“Alistair!” Sister Cadence began scolding on Moyra’s behalf, but he interrupted.

“I’m serious. We’re expected to give up our lives. Why? Isolating mages from everyone else? So no one else can see a mage? What is it _for_?”

Cullen was fit to burst. Alistair was mourning Maric, yes. When would it end? Hadn’t it been enough already? When would he get back to how he was when they first met?

“We dedicate our lives for the lives of others,” Cullen realized he was speaking before he could stop himself. “Mages live apart to protect themselves as well as non-mages. The threat of an angry mob would _require_ a mage to develop combat ability and willingness to kill. The mages separate themselves to avoid that necessity. As templars, we will decrease that necessity even further. Also, if they lose control, we give them the safety of knowing they won’t kill others.”

Alistair’s angry eyebrows twitched into a peak. Sorrow? But Sister Moyra backed Cullen up. “I’m afraid the concept of a mage without Andraste’s influence is terrifying to the average person. You will act as a personification of Her influence,” she said, smoothly transitioning into her intended lesson. “However, there are situations where a mage is out of control or has decided to use magic to hurt others. In these situations, you must not hesitate to neutralize the magic and kill the mage. Being a templar means Maleficar will die by your hand, but not every mage is Maleficar.”

\---

Cullen caught Alistair’s elbow as they left the Chantry. “Why were you an asshole to Sister Moyra in class?”

Alistair turned in the practice ground’s mud, perhaps a little faster than usual, pulling his elbow from Cullen’s grasp. “Me? What about you?” Alistair’s voice was definitely louder than usual. “I thought you were my friend.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “Friends don’t let friends’ druffaloshit slide.”

Cullen watched Alistair’s jaw clench and unclench. His fists were doing the same; he was shaking. Good, thought Cullen, I finally reached him. But then Alistair’s bare fist shot toward him, struck as a bolt of pain, and flung his head to one side. As Cullen raised his hand to his swelling face, all of his frustration, jealousy, and hatred for Alistair coalesced into one emotion: anger. He’d been angry before – especially before templar training in Honnleath – but this time it felt fresh and raw. Alistair was breathing heavily, fists clenched and shaking. How could he ignore his obligations enough to hit a fellow? Someone had to set him straight. Someone had to make this right.

\---

For a moment, Alistair thought Cullen wouldn’t fight, so he hesitated, unsure whether he could strike someone who refused to defend himself. Then Cullen made a fist, too, and hit Alistair like a rock, causing him to stagger back a few paces. Cullen stepped forward, in control as always, but Alistair had plenty of anger left. Cullen expected fists, so Alistair tackled, followed Cullen’s body to the ground.

Stomach: pin him down. Bare fist to head: Cullen’s forearm deflected, his head pushing sideways. Mud under Alistair’s fist. Impact on Alistair’s left side, flinch. Shoved further right and rolling.

Hit everything: shoulder, ear. Block blows to head, endure hits to chest. Weapons training was still cursory at best, not much more than forms to keep them all moving while they sharpened their focus still more. Yet Cullen’s blows were already like a blacksmith’s. Or a farmer’s.

Lean sideways to throw Cullen’s balance, then shove hard. Rolling again. On top. Knee goes in gut, but firm grip clamped Alistair’s upper arms to his sides and dragged him off of Cullen. How?!? Not Cullen. Alistair struggled even as he locked the image of Cullen’s bugged eyes and pained face into his memory to replay later. Cullen leapt up, but a second templar wrapped a huge arm around him, too.

The gauntleted hands on his arms relaxed a little. Opportunity. Take it. Alistair tried to break free again to wipe the righteousness off Cullen’s face. Anger, indignation, a smirk: Cullen’s every expression was infuriatingly righteous. Failed, but even as Alistair felt the swelling around his eye, he felt satisfaction in the spreading bruise on Cullen’s cheek.

\---

Ser Clancy and Ser Jarlath had been training the older boys with weapons. Once they had the… _unsanctioned_ combatants separated and calmed down, the templars took a moment to set the older boys on manikin drills with unedged weapons before marching Cullen and Alistair to the Revered Mother’s office. Then they left Alistair alone with Cullen.

Outside the office, the boys sat in silence, Cullen cleaning mud out of his left ear. Maker, what had Alistair done? They still have to sleep in the same room. Was it really that bad? What had Cullen even said? It was in the classroom, wasn’t it? After the Chant? Alistair’s memory blurred around the sharp edges of pain. It wasn’t so bad, it was Alistair’s own fault for making a mountain of a molehill. He hadn’t been in a scrap like that since Redcliffe. The boys around here hit hard, but none of them really knew how.

“Where’d you learn to hit like that?” Alistair blurted.

Cullen half-smiled. “Defending a friend of mine back home. Also, my training in Honnleath started with weapons practice.” A pause. “What about you?”

Alistair remembered all the glances and glares he never understood but probably deserved, and a chuckle soothed that… guilt? as the small laugh bubbled up out of him. “Townies hated me. An older boy at the stables taught me enough to have a chance. I learned more the hard way.”

“I admit it; I wasn’t expecting you to… take the physical route.” This last part echoed some of the Sisters in their most delicate skirting of issues.

Alistair smiled. “I don’t start fights. Well, usually. I almost thought you weren’t going to play along.”

Cullen barked an unpleasant laugh. “No, I was sure I could help you… with my fists.” He examined his clenched hand ruefully.

“Oh, yeah, that makes perfect sense – wait, what?” Alistair grinned and mugged a bit to show he was joking, not stupid. “Is that like, magical fists?”

Cullen turned in his chair. “I don’t get—I don’t understand you. Sometimes you’re like a victim, but you can handle yourself. Sometimes you invite trouble. You seem to revel in it.”

Alistair’s smile fell off his face, and his mouth sealed shut until he found a way to respond. “I’m not enjoying trouble this time.” His chin twitched toward the door. “What do you suppose she’ll do to us?”

“Scouring pots?”

“I wish. No, getting caught fighting is more serious than that.” Alistair felt his shoulders relax as the subject changed, despite his own claims.

“I hope we don’t get expelled,” Cullen grumbled ruefully.

“Well, I hope _you_ don’t get expelled,” Alistair said. “I wouldn’t mind.”

The door opened. “Alistair?” called an old woman in the doorway.

“I guess we’ll see.” Alistair stood, feeling all elbows and knees, and followed Mother Adeen into her office.

\---

He’d been in there at least ten minutes. Cullen stared at the office door. How much longer, Cullen wondered for the hundredth time, wiping sweaty palms on his trousers.

Just after the hundred forty-eighth time, the door opened and Alistair emerged. The same voice called from within. “Cullen?” Feet heavy, he rose and entered the office as Alistair sat down alone in the hall. Cullen tried to read something from him, but Alistair wasn’t meeting his eye.

Although Cullen had met Mother Adeen after a week or so at Bournshire, he’d never been in her office. There were two chairs in front of a simple wooden desk and full bookshelves lining the walls. Windows emitted light, air, and the sounds of recruits in the courtyard below. A smoky smell of roasted turnips and wild boar hinted on the breeze crossing to the clerestory windows above his head. Mother Adeen sat behind the desk, but her previously-friendly face held no clues about their fate. At the Revered Mother’s gesture, Cullen chose the right-hand chair.

Cullen studied his boots until Mother Adeen asked, “How did this happen?” as though their fistfight were a preventable tragedy with a deeper meaning.

A bubble of curiosity rose within him. “What did Alistair say?”

“Would that change what you tell me?”

Cullen’s shoes drew his attention again as he shook his head. “Of course not, Your Grace.”

“Then tell your side.”

“I started it,” Cullen said looking up, and the Revered Mother’s eyebrows hopped up, then back to neutral. He explained: “I was mad at him for questioning Sister Moyra, but his question was valid. We should understand why we must do what we do. I guess… Not everyone knows before they come.”

“What exactly did you do to start it?”

Cullen stared at his toes again, reluctant to confess, but compelled by her question. “I called him an idiot in class, explaining my position in detail. I called him worse after class.” Cullen winced, but he couldn’t seem to stop. “I never give him a break. I’m always on him about something – his socks on my bed, or picking up his side of the room, or …” Cullen leashed his tongue. “No wonder he snapped.”

“Interesting. Summon him, please.”

That was fast. Cullen went to the door and opened it. He looked at his roommate, who nodded grimly and rose to enter. Once they were each settled into their respective chairs, the Revered Mother addressed Alistair. “Please tell Cullen what you told me.”

“I’m sorry for starting the fight, Cullen. It should never have come to blows. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Cullen glanced at the Revered Mother, who nodded. “No, I started it. You weren’t thinking clearly because I pushed you.”

“You didn’t expect me to throw a punch,” Alistair insisted. “We could have – talked it out or something.”

But Cullen would not back down. “I used insults, I embarrassed you. We could have talked if I had been reasonable.”

“So, you are equally to blame,” Mother Adeen interrupted before Alistair could continue the argument. “To correct your errors, you have two assignments. First, you will remain roommates for the foreseeable future, and learn to get along together. Consider it part of your training, if you must.” Actually, yes, thought Cullen, that does help. She continued, “During the next two weeks, you will eat and use all facilities separately from everyone else. Second, you must clean the stables every day for those two weeks. You must miss classes to achieve this. I believe it’s a bit overdue.”

Cullen was horrified. He’d been wondering about the state of the extensive stables, who was supposed to clean them out, but he hadn’t worried. And to miss classes? But if this was part of his training… Cullen took a breath, sat straighter, and nodded, keeping all expression of distaste off his face.

“You can just catch the end of lunch,” the Revered Mother said sternly. “Sit at a separate table. Don’t dawdle, and report to the stables when you are done.”

\---

Their weeks of punishment passed uneventfully. Neither boy enjoyed it, but the former farm and stable boys didn’t find the work unbearable, either. They chatted while they worked, mostly about caring for animals when they were children. Cullen still wasn’t sure whether they were truly friends, but Alistair wasn’t nearly as annoying as before, and the sentiment seemed to be mutual.

They didn’t really talk about the fight, but after their two weeks’ punishment, they talked more freely, often bringing up minor issues they would have let slide before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Alistair smuggles contraband. Again.


End file.
